


Afterdeath

by The_Wavesinger



Series: Echo of Your Lamentation [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Extra Treat, Gen, Houseless Elves - Freeform, ToT: Monster Mash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Aredhel, after her death, wanders Middle-earth and its shores.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



Aredhel drifts.

She will _not_ go to the Halls. She cannot. She cannot be trapped for an eternity, and there is nothing she will repent for, and so there is nothing for her in the Halls. And so she is trapped in a twilight world, a ghost none can see.

In Gondolin, moments after her death, and after the pain and chaos of being ripped away from her body and refusing a summons (one which still preys upon her mind when she is vulnerable and unguarded, tempting her, calling to her, but she cannot, will not go), she watches Eöl die, but cannot find his spirit. She wanders away from the city and searches Nan Elmoth and all of Beleriand, but he is gone, and she does not know why. (He, too, would have stayed behind.)

When she returns to Gondolin, she sees fire, and destruction, and Maeglin, and _oh my son what have you done how did it come to this_. But she cannot look away, and watches as he falls and dies, like his father before him.

And, too, like for his father before him, Aredhel searches, but she cannot find. And so she drifts.

As she drifts, she comes closer to the sea. This, she knows, is because of the call of the Halls, but she cannot find it in herself to care. As long as she does not cross the sea and enter the Halls, she is safe. And she has another motivation, too: most of the remaining Ñoldor hold out (if their ragged havens can be called _holding out_ ) against Morgoth in the West.

This destruction, too, she watches, and attempts to weep as her cousins attack her people. But the houseless cannot weep, and so she watches, helpless, as Sirion burns.

But there is still Elrond and Elros, and Aredhel moves with the Fëanorions and watches them. There is nothing she can do to help them, but even this small act of watchfulness gives her some satisfaction.

And then they leave, and they leave to the camp of the hosts of Valinor, where there are Maiar, and she cannot wander there.

And so she drifts.

The years pass, and she does not count them. The sea beats a rhythm on the shore, and Aredhel spends her days listening to the song of the waves. There is war in the North, and the land breaks, and recedes, and Aredhel follows it backwards as the tide rises and engulfs the places she and her kin put sweat, blood, and tears into defending from Morgoth.

The sea still pounds against the sand, and Aredhel still listens. She lives for the rising and the falling of the tide, and almost (but not quite) cannot remember another existence.

Until, one day, she hears a man singing.

His voice is beautiful, and it evokes memories that she buried deep inside, and she _remembers_ , and she does not want to. But she does not want to move, either; her spot by the sea is comfortable, and what she is used to. And so she grits her teeth, turns her back on him, and endures.

When night falls, he does not set up a campfire, but sprawls far enough up the beach that the tide will not reach him and goes to sleep under the stars.

Aredhel watches him, and his face is familiar; she knew him, once, but—

“Maglor.”

And it is Maglor, and, at that moment, he wakes and sits bolt upright, his eyes wide with fear.

 _No_ , Aredhel thinks, _it cannot be._ The living cannot hear her voice. She has tried many, many times. She should know. And yet.

“Maglor,” she says, again. And again, he wakes from where he has lain back down to sleep.

And sudden hope rises in Aredhel's heart, and will not be quashed. If he can hear, then it might be possible for him to _see_ her, given enough effort. And then she will not be condemned to this lonely existence anymore.

She talks.

She talks to him at every possible moment, moves with him when he leaves the place she had spent so long in, talks and talks and talks. Nothing interesting, and sometimes nonsense words and phrases when normal conversation is too much effort, but Aredhel swear he _hears_ her.

“Maglor, look what a beautiful day it is,” she says, one day, and he murmurs, “Go away.”

He has spoken to her. He sang, before, but did not speak; now, he has spoken to her, and it is a victory.

“You spoke to me.”

“Go away,” he says, again.

“You can hear me, can you not?”

“Go away.” Then, “Goawaygowaygoa _way_.”

Aredhel laughs. He can hear her! He can hear her, and soon, he will be able to speak to her, and it will be a victory.

She talks incessantly at him, now, and the intensity of his litany of 'go aways' increases. He can _hear_ her. And so she talks into the night, and through the next day, and all through the next night, too. And all the while, Maglor's chant continues until his voice is hoarse.

“You will be able to see me soon,” Aredhel says.

And Maglor—Maglor screams. “ _Shut up._ ”

Aredhel stops. There is a viciousness in his voice which she could not hear before, but, “You can hear me, Maglor, _please._ ”

“Shut _up_ ,” Maglor yells again, and it comes out broken and twisted and _wrong_. “I do not know who or what you are, but please, for the love of Eru, _go away_.”

And that hurts. Aredhel is silent, for a moment, but, “You know me, Maglor. I am Aredhel.”

Maglor looks—looks—in her direction, his face pale, as if sucked of all the blood in it. “ _Go away._ ”

And he runs, runs like the wind, runs as if fleeing the Orc-hordes of Utumno. Aredhel follows after him.

He will be able to see her soon. And then she will have a companion.


End file.
